A
citizen of Bellingham, WA by way of Southern California, Thomas Duder
is a firm believer that a writer should write. "Forget the drama of
writing, forget the politics of writing, forget even the rest of the
industry. Writers should write, period."

An
independent publisher and author, working in close collaboration with a
fierce team assembled and hand-picked by he himself, Thomas Duder is a
seasoned general of various projects beforehand, bringing those skills
to the fore as The Crew plunges directly into the world of
action-adventure literature!His
vanguard series, "The Generalist," is an action-adventure extravaganza,
a veritable rollercoaster ride through a Neo-Los Angeles of the near
future. Loaded with witty dialogue, fast-paced action and sequences of
brilliant violence, you're sure to find plenty to keep you entertained
for hours on end!

Download The Generalist - Taboo 0: Cliché of Memories for free!And
if you'd rather your violence short and poignant, then do be on the
lookout for the upcoming short-story saga, "Killer XIII." Follow the
brutal misadventures of the malevolent, marauding murderer in a desert
wasteland filled with killers, cannibals, and Daemonkinder and the
general malcontent of all sorts and types. Revel in the absolute loss
of logic and sanity, of a world gone inexplicably and completely wrong,
and the harsh wanderers of the hungry wastes teeming with madness,
death, and the strange quest known only to 13, the man named after the
brand and his ever present Meat Cleaver, the blade named after itself.

Outside
of writing, he is also a man of other artistic endeavors - a lyricist
and blogger as well as a fierce orator and vocalist, using these skills
to deliver the thirty to forty-five minute program "Haymakers and
Hellhounds."

Trade Information

Enjoy this excerpt from The Generalist - Taboo 1: Where's the Beef?

Frank
screamed as his gloved hands scrabbled for purchase, attempting to drag
himself away from the booted feet that stomped on him for a moment
before one particularly strong one kicked at his ribs, nearly busting
one if not for his tough jacket.

Grunting, one of the
Monster-gened, this one a wereape, hauled on his leg and slightly lifted
him in the air, his fingers once again scrabbling for the street before
his body slammed back down to the ground on it's own in a power lift.
As the pinstripe-suited wereape and his two equally snazzily-dressed
hyena-headed henchmen continued to put the boots to Frank, behind him
several of the bigger goons worked Dash over, two more of the
hyena-heads on each arm and another wereape holding him with both hands
on the back of his head, the ape's arms looped under his, a
business-suited werewolf worked his face over with powerful right and
left hooks before tenderizing the troll's tough trunk with underhanded
blows.

Growling, the wereape stomped, signaling that the hyenas
should let go before tentspiking Dash into the street with a powerful,
full-moon strengthened belly-to-back suplex, his back bridging with
unnatural (for either human or ape) flexibility as he slammed Dash's
skull into the pavement.

Getting up and laughing, the werewolf
walked over to Frank and kicked him once in the face, forcing him to his
back before leaning over and spitting on him.

"You tell Vitto
we're comin' for him, tonight. He's dead. His family's dead. His goons
are dead. We're going to kick his fucking dogs. We're going to eat his
fucking children's hearts in front of him. Everyone he loves is fucking
dead," the werewolf opened up his semi-muzzle, hawking up phlegm before
spitting it at Frank's face again, causing the smaller man to groan and
try and curl up, "And you Shop freaks are next."

Laughing, the
group walked back into the Bantam Club, bringing the guards in for a
round of drinks in celebration of the ass-whooping they had just dished
out.

Waiting a moment Frank coughed, reaching up to wipe away at his face with a grunt before groaning out, "Hey Dash?"

Dash's
body finally came down, catching itself on his knees as his skull and
neck reformed again. Shaking his head with a shotgun-sound of crackling,
he groaned aloud, slipping to his chest for a moment before answering,
"Frank?"

"You okay, chief?"

"Yeah boss," Dash shook his
head again, coming up to his knees and beginning to dust his torn and
bruised clothes off, "Just gimme a few. Maybe an hour."

Frank
slowly got to his feet, his own energies turned inward beginning to
limber his stiff and bruised muscles, groaning as he felt every abused
inch of him beginning to heal a little, "Hey. Dash?"

Dash
blinked, craning his neck this way and that, about to bemoan the
destruction of his good clothes until Frank got his attention, "Yeah,
Frank?"

"I hope you realize...," Frank glowered darkly as Dash's
face lit up with an inhuman grin, finishing their most favorite
declaration, "This means war!!!!"﻿GIT YOU SUM!